


Water in the Desert

by platypus (kite)



Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-21
Updated: 2015-12-21
Packaged: 2018-05-08 01:54:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,528
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5478956
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kite/pseuds/platypus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>River and the Doctor meet again.  Set near the end of Deep Breath.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Water in the Desert

He won't leave Clara with Vastra and Jenny forever. Of course not. He's just not going back quite _yet._

The Doctor spins some dials on the console, restless. Throws a lever. The console room around him feels empty, half-formed, a bad metaphor for his psyche. He contemplates that for a moment, but _needs more round things_ doesn't resonate as useful mental health advice. 

He'll be back for Clara soon. He just needs to be a little more settled in his skin, that's all. His friends' influence is not a bad thing—it's one of the reasons he keeps humans around, after all—but right now he needs to be alone, away from the scrutiny of those who might prefer him the way he used to be. 

That's not fair. He has Clara to thank for this new regeneration cycle, after all. Not her fault that it didn't come out to her satisfaction. (That's not fair, either. He gave her the wrong impression in his last incarnation. It's better this way. She won't try to bring this version of him home for Christmas dinner.) 

He just doesn't want to see himself through her eyes right now. 

The TARDIS lands with a decisive thump, giving him a start. He hadn't actually triggered the materialisation sequence. Or had he? He might not have been paying attention. 

He opens the door to darkness. Sand underfoot, stars overhead. Earth constellations. Approximately local midnight, his time sense says; at least _that_ still works. When he pulls the door shut behind him, the darkness seems to swallow him up. He glances over his shoulder; the TARDIS' lamp is extinguished, the windows dark. The ship's bulk is just a blackness against the stars. She's gone into hibernation mode; apparently they're going to be here for a while. 

Well, he wanted solitude. He pats the weathered wooden door, and something inside him relaxes at last. As his eyes adjust to the darkness, the stars grow piercingly bright, the sky utterly dark. 

Except there, to the north—there's a faint smudge of light on the horizon, somewhere past the next set of sand dunes. Not so alone after all. Humans: there's no getting away from them completely. 

He could go south, let that light fade over the horizon. There's no need to investigate. He weighs curiosity against the desire not to be judged by anybody else today.

Finally, he turns to the north and starts to walk.

***

He'd forgotten how deceptive distances could be in the desert. He's been walking for a tediously long time, occasionally slipping a bit in the sand, before the light grows any brighter. Finally, he crests a dune and finds himself looking down at a small cluster of canvas tents. Flaming torches are spaced evenly around the perimeter. There's no activity in these small hours of the night, but the flap on the largest tent is open, spilling warm light across the sand. He skids down the side of the dune, kicking up yet more sand (he's beginning to hate sand), and cautiously approaches.

The woman inside the tent is sitting on a crate, writing in a notebook. Her face is turned partly away from him, profile half obscured by golden curls. The Doctor's breath catches in his throat. 

She chews the end of her pencil, jots down something else. Not her TARDIS diary, he sees now, but a field notebook with pale green pages. "About time you showed up," she says absently. "Just a minute, sweetie, I've got to get this down before…" 

The Doctor coughs, and River looks up abruptly; for a moment, she goes very, very still. Then her mouth curves up softly. "Well, aren't you looking spectacular."

"River." _Have you seen me before, did you_ know _this would happen—_ How many times does he have to come to terms with saying goodbye to her? He'd dipped back into her timeline compulsively after Darillium, finally parted with her data ghost on Trenzalore. He can't do this again. He _can't._ "I'm not staying." 

"Don't be ridiculous." River sets her notebook aside. "You must have come here for a reason." 

"I really didn't."

"It's okay. I'm sure you'll figure it out eventually." 

"It was a coincidence. I landed back over the dunes, thought I'd take a walk."

"In the desert. At night. Dressed like that." Her eyes flick up and down, taking him in. "Want me to guess? Newly regenerated, right? You're wearing that body like you're not sure it fits. Needed a familiar face? Or something?"

The Doctor looks away. "I wasn't alone when it happened. Cl— Someone was there." 

"But she isn't with you now."

"No." He doesn't want to talk about this. "What are _you_ doing here?" he asks instead, nodding over at her notebook. 

"Shepherding some students on a dig. Looking for evidence of the Alexandria Key, actually. I don't suppose you'll tell me where to find it?"

He snorts. "That would be cheating. Even if it did exist." 

"Using the resources available to you isn't cheating." She eyes him thoughtfully. "Besides, rumours of a time traveller visiting the Library of Alexandria before it burned and scanning the entire contents to a data drive? Who does that sound like?"

"You?" 

River pushes some papers aside, uncovering a vortex manipulator. "Don't think I haven't tried. That whole time period seems to be locked." 

The Doctor shrugs. "Well, it wasn't me. Or if it was, I haven't done it yet. Can't help you."

River rolls her eyes, and he finds himself smiling at her. Maybe this _is_ why he's here. He drinks in the sight of her: her bright, riotous hair, the crinkle at the corner of her eyes when she smiles back at him. She's the same as he remembers, and no matter how much he changes, it makes no difference to her. As far as she's concerned, he's still him, and _they're_ … 

Together. _Alone_ , possibly for the last time, in this little tent in the middle of the desert. Well, alone in a tent surrounded by sleeping graduate students, actually, but that's a lot less off-putting than it ought to be; he and River have rarely been able to choose their circumstances. The Doctor swallows, feeling his hearts starting to beat faster. Among other autonomic responses. Now _there's_ something that hasn't happened in a while. 

River gives him a long, steady look. "Well, I'm sure I can find something else for you to help me with. I'm certainly not letting you leave like _that_." 

He glances down—he hadn't thought it was that obvious—only to find that his coat is, in fact, covering him decently. He raises an eyebrow at River. 

Her smile widens. "Lucky guess. Now get over here. And close the tent flap, would you?"

"Is that innuendo? It sounds backwards." 

River rises to her feet, graceful as any predator; the Doctor falls silent, transfixed, as she stalks toward him. What if he can't remember how this goes? He has no idea what he'll do if she touches him. He wants desperately to find out. She closes in, and reaches—he almost flinches, doesn't—reaches past him to close the tent flap. 

And _then_ she kisses him.

***

Things come back to him more easily once their clothes are off. His new senses are a delight; he applies himself to rediscovering the scent of River's hair, the weight of her breasts in his hands, the incredible softness of her inner thigh.

River, of course, takes charge, pulling him down on a squeaky camp bed with soft, worn sheets, kissing his chest as her hand works its way lower. He's likely to be on a hair trigger, with this new, untested body, but the moment she touches him, his half-formed warning becomes an incoherent moan. Her fingers slide over him, light and exploratory, as if she knows exactly how sensitive his cock is right now. She leans down, brushing her hot cheek along the shaft, and—oh, hell, that's done it. 

"Sorry," he mutters afterward, collapsing back on the bed. River just laughs, and fetches a flannel to clean them both up. 

When she's done, she stretches out next to him. "Now that we've got that out of the way…" 

He's already turned to face her. Her fingers slip through his hair as he kisses her neck, sucks at her breast, tugs her nipple gently with his teeth. He moves further down, reaches the end of the bed; some quick repositioning, and he's kneeling on the floor before her, easing her leg over his shoulder. He nuzzles her curls, breathes in the scent of her. Even in humans, scent is a powerful trigger of memory, and this—oh, he remembers this. 

River squirms impatiently; he spreads her open, licking along the inside of her labia, indulging his new taste buds (tangy salt and musk, at once new and familiar). Her clit is swollen, protruding slightly from its hood; he kisses it lightly, feeling her thigh muscles quiver. An experimental flick of his tongue has her moaning encouragement, rocking up against his mouth. 

He lifts his head; River smacks his shoulder. "Tell me you have an audio damper in here," he says. 

"I must have forgotten to bring it," she mutters, tugging his head back down. 

He kisses her inner thigh. "You'll wake the whole camp."

"We'll see about that, won't we?" 

"I didn't mean it as a challenge," he says. "Think about your career."

"I'm thinking about your—" 

"River!"

"Shh. We'll just have to be quiet." 

"If you think you can," he murmurs, sliding his tongue back over her. River jerks, makes a muffled noise, and he settles in, lavishing attention on her clit, slow licks gradually building into deeper pressure. His cock is already beginning to make renewed demands on his attention, but he ignores it, sliding two fingers into River's slick heat. He catches her clit between his lips, sucking hard, curling his fingers inside her; that should, if muscle memory from another body is worth anything at all, be the right— _yes_ , there. River gasps, arches beneath him, tightens convulsively around his fingers. Old memory and her still-tight grip on his scalp make him continue, drawing at her clit more gently now, until her shuddering subsides completely. 

Only when she's satisfied, relaxing back and loosening her grip, does he finally rise up and guide himself into her. Coming to rest inside her is like coming home; River sighs, too, holding him close. But he can't stop to savour it, not now. He begins to thrust, the bed creaking in rhythm; River smothers a giggle against his shoulder. He thinks wildly of alternatives—the crates, the sandy ground sheet, anything—but it's no use. As if he could stop, now that he's inside her. As if her legs around him would let him go. 

He pauses, eyes meeting River's in mutual frustration, and then begins again, carefully. Finds a rhythm that's soft, quiet, deep, sweating with the effort of keeping control. To his surprise, and rather intense gratification, it seems to be working for her; her rising gasps, muffled at his ear, suggest that she's already working up to another climax. Whether it's something about the pace, the angle, his shape or size, he very much looks forward to finding out—later. He can't hold out any longer. River must be able to tell; she whispers his name, the one he chose, but she knows the other, he can feel it in her, she knows him, she _knows—_

Then all his thoughts are extinguished by blessed oblivion as he comes. He can't contain it—the psychic spillover hits River before he can protect her, but she handles it effortlessly, expertly, riding it into another orgasm that leaves her clutching at him, biting back a cry. Her ecstasy echoes back through him, prolonging his own until he's dizzy with pleasure and out of breath entirely. 

Somehow, when it's over, he manages to collapse without crushing River, knocking either of them off the camp bed, or making too much of a racket. He's a mess, trembling with physical and mental exhaustion, but he feels more centred in himself than he has since he regenerated. Without opening his eyes, he can tell where he ends and River begins, a sleepy, satisfied presence next to him. 

She eventually breaks the silence. "Whew. It's been a while since I did _that._ " 

He winces inwardly. "Sorry, I'm sorry about that last bit—" 

"I'm not." 

"I lost control. It could have been dangerous."

"Trust me, sweetie, I know what I'm doing. Besides, you needed it."

She's not wrong. He feels… new. Laid bare, literally and figuratively. Like the aftermath of a tsunami, minus the wreckage. Actually, it's more like a thousand years of flotsam have been cleared away, but that doesn't make the experience any less overwhelming. He should really pull himself together, but his instincts recognise River as safety (on some level, they always have, foolishly or not), and he allows himself to rest a little longer. 

When he wakes, it's close to dawn. River is snoring faintly, curled facing away from him. He hovers his hand over her glorious hair, not quite touching, unwilling to disturb her, but now that he's awake there's no getting back to sleep. 

He eases out of bed and pads over to River's makeshift desk to see if there's anything of interest. Searching for the Alexandria Key. Honestly. He rifles through a pile of maps—ah, there. He sketches in a secret passage that was somehow missed in the initial survey. That should help. 

With another look at River, he regretfully gathers his clothes and gets dressed. It feels wrong, but maybe, just this once, he can leave without saying goodbye. He's going to break down if he has to try for another casual _See you around_. 

But he's barely finished tying his bootlaces when she rolls over and gives him a tousled, bleary smile. "Sneaking out?" she asks without censure. 

"I thought I should be gone before your students come around. Avoid awkward questions." 

She yawns. "Or you could stay and help with the dig. We've got extra coveralls." 

He sits carefully on the edge of the bed. River reaches lazily for him; he takes her hand, kisses her palm. "Thanks, but I think there's somewhere I should be." 

"Oh?" She sits up. Narrows her eyes. "Your travelling companion, the one who isn't with you. You didn't strand her somewhere and run off to have an identity crisis, did you?" 

"I didn't strand anybody! I have a time machine."

River sighs. "Tell me you at least left her somewhere with indoor plumbing." 

" _Time machine._ I'll be back before she has a chance to miss me." If only he could say the same about River. Unless… "River." He shouldn't ask, he _really_ shouldn't. "Is this the first time you've seen me? This me, I mean."

River has more discipline than he does; her answer is inevitable, though at least she softens it by kissing his nose first. "Spoilers."

Hope rises in the Doctor's chest anyway. It buoys him, all the way back to the TARDIS.


End file.
